Lent devotional 35
I am your guilty scars, as roman soldiers tear my back
I am the crimson stain that washes all the souls faded to black
I am the one who bled in silence and endured it all
I am the word who spoke no word, with a thousand angels waiting for my call
I am your covenant, your hero in these bloodstained pages
I am your guilt, your sin, your debt fulfilled for all the ages
I step into your shoes, your substitute
Your sacrifice
Your raison d’etre
Your second chance
Your breath of life
I am
I am the joy of angels dancing in the streets of heaven
I am the sinner’s prayer for mercy and a past forgiven
I am the lamb upon the altar dying willingly
All hope that was
All hope that is
All hope to be
I am
Credit Theocracy
I am.
Dragged before people who did not deserve to be judge and jury, beaten, ridiculed, knowing He would die, and when asked if He was the man they were looking for Jesus still replied ‘I am.’
Fearless? No. Ready? Probably not. Willing? Yes. Jesus was the willing sacrifice. You open a Bible and you open a world of history, carefully preserved and hidden from hands that would have destroyed it. Blood stains the pages from Jesus to the martyrs and everyone before and after. The blood of the men and women who refused to give in to the pounding of the swords on the shields of the enemy surrounding them. To stand against all odds and say, ‘no! Jesus is king no matter what you say!’ If He isn’t real then why does He scare people so badly? Because they don’t want to change and they know that if what Jesus said was true then that would mean they would be living a dead existance, but surrender scares them. He did nothing wrong, yet He died. He commited no crime, yet He was sentenced. For every dirty thought. For every feeling of contempt that is unworthy of the presence of God Jesus died so we could still stand before the throne of Heaven. I can’t say this as well as Theocracy did, but He is I Am, and that means so much more than two words. He is the sacrifice, the saving seal, the one who holds the keys of sin and death.
The one who was scourged for us. We wet it down and say beaten because the word scourage makes our stomachs crawl. Look up that word and let your mind understand that this was not a beating with rods which would have been plenty, this was so much worse. We don’t want to see because we want to forget just how much He did for us. But forgetting doesn’t peel the glass bits out of His skin or wrap back together the tissue and tendons torn. He is the blood running down to the foot of the cross that washes me clean. No matter how many times I fail, I Am lets me climb my way back to Him, and when I can’t climb, He carries me. Because He has already paid it all, there is nothing more for Him to pay for me, I belong to Him and He loves me.
Carried in the cross 